


Your Fields So Green Can Whisper Tales of Gore

by homo_pink



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 15:41:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1515944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homo_pink/pseuds/homo_pink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is 100% everything Sam’s been unintentionally searching for.</p>
<p>Sam is 100% everything Dean’s been secretly hoping would find him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Fields So Green Can Whisper Tales of Gore

**Author's Note:**

> Written for spnspringfling 2014 and originally posted [here](http://spnspringfling.livejournal.com/102352.html).

Dean is 100% everything Sam’s been unintentionally searching for.

Sam runs into him on his way out of Larry’s Discount Electronics on a quiet Saturday evening. He’s far and away too amped over the single target CD duplicator that he scored on the cheap – only a few outerwear dings and scuffs – and not paying attention to the foot traffic out on the sidewalk.

“Holy shit, I’m so sorry,” Sam says, scrambling to help him up off the pavement. Sam hooks an elbow under his arm, grips his back, and gets his first real look as he hauls him up, and Sam says again, softer, to himself, “Holy shit.”

Sam doesn’t watch a whole lot of television, but he thinks if he did – this is probably the kind of face that'd be worth tuning in for. A strong jaw and neat brows; almost delicate features placed onto a strong bone structure, exquisitely put together.

Sam would kill to take him apart.

He gives Sam a bleak smile and brushes little sprays of dirt off his knees. His legs are _incredible_. Sam's duplicator is a lot scuffier now, bent and misshapen along one corner. He hardly notices. 

“No harm,” the guy says, in this – this _voice_. Dark and deadly by nature and that’s it, Sam’s as good as sold. 

 

-

 

Sam is 100% everything Dean’s been secretly hoping would find him.

Maybe not quite so painfully – he’s got scrapes on the palms of his hands and places on his butt that’ll still be sore tomorrow – but the poor circumstances of their meeting don’t make Sam any less appealing, not one single little iota.

The walking, talking brick wall he’d slammed into on his way out of the new gym he's just become a member of has a few good inches on him and has worried, expressive eyes while he makes sure Dean isn’t seriously injured anywhere. And if it were anywhere else, or anyone else, Dean might be incensed at being cooed over like some fainting damsel, but it’s not anywhere else and Sam’s not anyone else. Dean’s almost charmed by it all, really.

Sam is sweet, if a little awkward, and gorgeous in that way where he's got no idea what he actually looks like, that way that only makes him _better_ because of it. And when he tells Dean that the least he can do is buy him a cup of coffee to make it up to him, he’s talking to his shoes and his cheeks are about three shades too red to be nonchalant and Dean knows exactly what this is.

When Dean says yes, Sam grins like he can't believe his luck: wide and dimpled and so utterly genuine.

Dean is fully, absolutely, pleasantly charmed. There’s nothing _almost_ about it.

 

-

 

Dean lives in a loft at the top of the cityscape, shiny and spacious and horrendously expensive by the looks of things. 

Sam doesn’t have much time to sightsee though, little plastic bag from Larry’s still dangling off two fingers when Dean determinedly backs him up against a wall only three glorious, banter-filled hours after their coffee date. Turns out, there’s a whole lot more to Dean than just being pretty to look at.

He’s sharp and super perceptive, and he knows a little about a lot. His brain is as much a turn on to Sam as the rest of him is. He also _loves_ to play rock-paper-scissors and when he wins and gets to call how the evening’s going to go, Sam is floored to see that he still chooses to get down on his knees, like Sam’s the one doing him a favor by letting this completely gorgeous guy suck his cock.

Sam tilts his cheek a little to the left just then, lost in a haze of lusty delirium, and catches a glimpse of a battered old copy of _The Odyssey_ tucked in among the neat rows of Dean’s steel bookshelf. He whimpers, and shoves his fist into his mouth. Dean continues to make happy, sloppy noises down below. 

Sam never stood a chance.

 

-

 

Sam’s place of residence is a dingy little studio apartment that sits above a locally owned pawn shop.

It isn’t much to look at, but then Dean doesn’t do a whole lot of looking anyway when Sam brings him back the next day and gives him a 30 second grand tour before dragging him over to the mattress and pushing him down. In bed, Sam maybe isn’t quite as sweet as he looked, and Dean maybe likes it. _A lot_.

Sam’s got a filthy mouth on him, and isn’t afraid to get a little rough with him. Dean’s never actually done this before, not with another man, but he thinks he probably always wanted to, and really, who better than Sam?

Sam has booby traps rigged all along the entry points of his dwelling like he’s expecting something sinister, and he’s got a punching bag strung up from the ceiling in the middle of the room that obviously gets a lot of use. His arms are _incredible_. He also knows all the words to _Immigrant Song_ , and when he holds Dean’s hands down and carefully pushes into him, Dean figures it’s never too late to fall in love.

Sam Wesson is all in all basically perfect. Dean hopes he gets to see a lot more of him.

 

-

 

The last place on the planet he’s expecting to see Sam Wesson, however, is standing in the middle of Dean’s very own office the next morning while Mr. Adler goes on some spiel about finally having found the perfect assistant for him.

Sam has a messenger bag strapped across the front of his chest. He’s wearing a polo. Dean can’t stop staring.

“I think you two will be a perfect fit,” Mr. Adler says, amiably slapping Sam on the shoulder.

Dean feels the back of his neck flush hot, just thinking about all the perfect fitting they did over the weekend. Sam looks like he’s just swallowed his own tongue. 

 

-

 

“This can’t happen,” Dean finally finds the breath to say, six minutes after Mr. Adler’s walked out and left them alone. _Not here_ , he fights to keep in. “Not ever again.”

Sam nods, like he knew this was coming. Resigned. “Right. I agree.” Dean almost wishes he didn’t.

They spend the rest of the day as far apart as they can get, given that Sam’s workstation is set up directly outside of Dean’s office and every time he glances up, all he can see through the blinds is Sam’s profile, half of him hoping Sam will turn to look, the other half begging that he doesn’t.

Dean feels skittish, on edge, and he aches in his pants, almost as much as he aches in his chest. Sam Wesson had been perfect.

 

-

 

Sam intercepts phone calls, and manages client relations, slots in meetings for Dean here and there, and doesn’t speak unless directly spoken to. He doesn’t look either. Because he can’t. Because Dean Smith’s got a side part in his hair and a polka-dot tie around his neck, and freckles on his body that Sam has felt with his fingertips. Because he’s beautiful and Sam can’t think it anymore.

He almost wishes he was still down in tech support, listening to perverted jokes about dentures and wondering if that was really all there was to his life. 

 

-

 

Sam's midway through microwaving his crappy cup o’ pasta when Dean walks in to grab a bottle of water.

Dean pauses, hand on the refrigerator handle; Sam lingers, even after the timer on his lunch has dinged.

Dean takes an unconscious step forward at the same moment Sam does, easily and naturally, magnets on the same pull, and it’s only when the toes of their shoes are nearly touching that they seem to remember themselves at all. And the parameters of which they both agreed upon. Dean leaves without his water bottle. Sam hardly touches his food.

 

-

 

They last two full business days before Dean finds his hands covering the tops of Sam’s where they’re braced against the copy machine, Dean’s tailored pants around his ankles, Sam’s warm lips mouthing along the side of his throat, fucking into him from behind, _perfect_.

 

-

 

“This is crazy,” Sam says later, staring up at Dean’s bedroom ceiling, because it _is_. Stupid crazy. 

Dean makes a little noise, not setting roots into anything, but Sam knows he’s feeling it too. He’s gotta be. They could be fired tomorrow for this. 

“I just— You’re my _boss_ ,” Sam says, waving a hand through the air.

Dean scoffs, and rolls over, but not before Sam sees the slight wobble his bottom lip gives, hears the hot little sigh. Dean evidently _likes_ the thought. Sam tugs him back over, straddles Dean’s thighs. Sam likes it too, really a lot.

“We can stop anytime,” Dean says quietly, words barely born outside of his own head, and he reaches up to tangle his fingers in Sam’s sweaty hair. Sam kisses his mouth, and tastes his tongue, and lays awake in bed long after Dean’s fallen asleep on his shoulder, wondering if it’s really that simple, if they really could stop.

So far, it doesn’t seem to be true.

 

-

 

During office hours, nothing really changes.

Sam still sits at his desk, and he still answers all of his calls professionally and adequately, and when Dean accidentally crashes a program, Sam’s at his side right away to fix it. He doesn’t even squirm when he gets a whiff of Dean’s cologne. Much. 

They eat separate lunches, don’t interact outside of work related discussions, and Sam always answers, “Yes, Mr. Smith” or “No sir, Mr. Smith” or “Of course, Mr. Smith”, mostly just to get under Dean’s skin. Nobody else really talks that way, not even to their superiors, and if anyone was paying attention, they might think it peculiar. Nobody pays them any attention though, too busy with their own conferences and deadlines, so Sam keeps on. 

Dean does a lot of collar stretching and throat clearing.

Sometimes Sam can hardly believe all of this is happening with a guy he only met a few weeks ago. Even if occasionally Dean looks at him in this gentle, painful way like they might’ve known each other their whole entire lives. 

 

-

 

Dean has two dreams on back to back nights. One of opening his own garage shop, and the other of teaching an overly curious little boy how to ride a big-kid bicycle. They don't mean anything, they're just dreams, but he thinks about them all the same.

Sam dreams every night, of various things. Smoke alarms going off, or a string of pretty girls standing at a dusky, deserted crossroads. Sometimes the images are too disturbing to really process. Clearest of all, though, are the ones of Dean. Those are the dreams Sam never thinks about, not after he's jerked awake. They might be nightmares. They might mean everything.

 

-

 

Five weeks in and Sam sinks deeper. 

They don't stop. They never even try. 

 

-

 

It doesn’t usually go this way. Usually they can wait.

Ever since Dean’s started up on his crazy avocado and banana diet scheme of the week though, well. He’s been rather squirrelly. Antsy, and sort of flushed, and really, really horny. 

Sam almost crushes his wireless mouse in his fist when Dean breezes past his desk and gives him a heated, hazy look that couldn’t be misinterpreted even if Sam were blind. Which he’s not. God, he’s not. Thank fuck he’s not. 

Which is how he ends up seated on the metal lid of a toilet, in a stall in the bathroom down the hall from Dean’s office, the one with the cloudy pink hand soap and the honeycomb tile, the one Dean swears no one ever uses – _not after this one guy bled out in here_ – with his khaki pants twisted around his knees and a lapful of grinding, moaning Dean Smith.

Sam has a lot of thoughts right then, in that moment, watching Dean get himself off, cherry flush down his throat and his pretty eyes obscured by drowsy blinks, slow and happy as he screws his hips down. Sam thinks he’d like to take his boss out on a real date, and maybe make him a CD – Dean secretly loves CDs, mixtapes too – share a milkshake, maybe a life, and Sam thinks he might really love this guy. It has nothing to do with their sexual compatibility. Though it doesn't hurt. They really are a perfect fit.

It's with that thought in mind that Sam exits the stall ten minutes and two orgasms later, Dean pushing up behind him in a hurry to get clean, and finds Mr. Adler standing there in front of the sinks, staring at the two of them, his face void of all expression.

 

-

 

Sam’s hair is wild, a little gnarled in spots from Dean’s fisting hands, and his mouth is red, and he's wearing bruising teeth prints set under his jaw. Dean’s no better off. He knows what it looks like, and he knows Mr. Adler knows it too.

With nothing to lose anymore, jobs already gone and tossed to the flame, he reaches for Sam’s hand, defiant in the face of a higher-up. Sam accepts it, squeezes once, and stays holding on.

“I should have known,” Mr. Adler says, shaking his head. Dean doesn’t think they’d been _that_ obvious, up ‘til now. “But I guess we always did suspect…”

_We?_ Dean thinks. Was there some secret office pool in rotation, making bets on, what, his sex life?

"And now we know," Mr. Adler says, before he turns and leaves the bathroom, leaves them all alone.

 

-

 

They don't lose their jobs. In fact, nothing happens at all. No gossip, no grapevine email sent out, no hushed whispers when they walk into the elevator together. Nobody actually knows a thing.

And only Sam knows why.

There was a moment, right before the old guy left for good, gone and never heard from again, when he walked calmly up to Sam and, either because it was a proper penance or perhaps just because he was an asshole, placed two steady fingers to Sam's forehead and gave him the backstory to all of his nightmares. Gave him the truths, and the memories, and the knowledge of the thing Sam's done, the thing they've done together.

He doesn't go near Dean. Just shoots Sam a look, the sinister thing Sam had always been waiting for, and leaves the decision solely in the hands of the wicked. And Sam is very wicked.

Dean fiddles with the buttons on his shirt, gives Sam a nervous, watery smile and Sam's choice is made for him. Dean is still 100% everything Sam's been unintentionally searching for.

Sam Winchester never says a word.


End file.
